Charlie's Angels

Jean, Ann and Pat

Everyone thinks that I'm partying it up in Mallorca with beachfuls of topless women, but Pto Pollenca is mostly empty this time of year, except for the British pensioners and the young expecting couples. Not sure what it is, but practically every female under the age of 35, and there aren't that many, seems to be pregnant. This must be a British thing: "you must visit Pto Pollenca when you're with child." The couples seem to prefer one of the other hotels that are further away from the main thoroughfare and are thus more quiet. My hotel is mostly empty, which is great, except for these three lovely ladies.

They caught me checking myself in the mirror to see how much of my hair I had accidentally painted white, and told me that I "still looked beautiful." In turn, I nicknamed them Charlie's Angels. If there was crime on the island, I bet they would fight it. They live in very different parts of the UK but meet in Mallorca regularly. Since they were genuinely concerned about my safety on this voyage, I told them I'd create a blog and point them to it. So hello Jean, Pat and Ann!

Electrical Repairs

I needed to buy a small electrical connector for the VHF antenna today. Apparently, the electrician is next to the church in Pto Pollenca, so I needed to locate the church to get to the electrician. It was close to the end of siesta time, so the streets were totally empty, except for a waitress outside a restaurant. I decided to ask her for directions:

Me: "Parla Ingles?"

Waitress: "Nooo." She decidedly does not speak English.

Me: "Donde esta la..... church?" I make a cross with my fingers, as if to ward off some imaginary vampire.

Waitress: "Que?" She's standoffish. She might be a vampire. I abandon the little finger cross.

Me: "Church, church...." This is going nowhere. "Casa de Christo!" Not sure if it's de or del, but I'm pretty happy, this has to be a clear description.

Waitress: "Christo?" I guess it could be a common name.

Me: "El Christo!" Very proud I nailed the definite article.

Waitress: "No se." Crap. I thought, back during the Inquisition, they got rid of everyone who did not know Christ at a personal level.

Me: In a flash of inspiration, I open my arms wide to the side and cock my head, Jesus-style, and wonder 'at what point do I cross the fine line from foreigner who does not speak Spanish to offensive idiot?'  "Casa de Papa!"

Waitress: "Papa?" My body description is one step behind what I'm saying, which must be genuinely confusing, also I'm not wearing sandals (because I never wear sandals) so my Jesus impression is off. I think she thinks I'm asking about her father. She's probably confused because her father was not crucified.

Me: I'm out of words for a while. Then I get another brilliant flash. "Spiritu Sanctu! Casa de Spiritu Sanctu!"

Waitress: "Iglesia!!!"

Who says Latin is dead?